


The potential of ideas

by Ghelik



Series: The 100 Fics [58]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 23:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15896352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghelik/pseuds/Ghelik
Summary: Echo has beautiful hands





	The potential of ideas

Echo has beautiful hands. Like everything about her, they’re long and fine-boned, pale-skinned. The right one is crisscrossed with minute, nearly invisible scars. The veins on the left one are slightly more prominent. Her fingernails are small ovals carefully cared for. Echo is not a vain woman, but she always takes time to care for her hands.

There is a softness to the slender wrist, the slight curl of her fingers and how they cradle the small body against her chest. 

He hears the door opening and closing, someone stepping softly closer. Beside him someone moves, chair scraping on the stone floor.

Bellamy can’t tear his eyes off her hand.  
This is a hand made to wield a sword and pull at his hair; to thread a needle and play cards, to pick up Murphy’s daughter and to forge beautiful weapons. 

“What are you doing here?” growls Murphy.

“Leave her be,” sighs Emori.   
The paleness of her skin is unsettling. It reminds him of the time on the Ring. Echo was born on the ground, her place is under the sun, riding in the snow, hunting through forests and braving the rain. In the Ring she became pale, her tanned skin becoming gray. 

On Echo’s chest, the little body is terribly still.   
The lack of movement is terribly wrong. Echo was never one to lay still. Even when she wasn’t moving there was something there, maybe it was the slight rise and fall of her chest when they lay content and sated in bed. Maybe it was the twitch of her eyes, following a prey around the room, or the tensing of muscles under her skin, the adjustment of a grip around the handle of a weapon, the play of light on her hair. 

“Bellamy,” Clarke’s voice carries a sort of authority to it. Something he’s always found incredibly difficult to ignore. A hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t need to look up to know it is Raven’s. 

The body is small, too small to even be real. It’s not. It’s just an idea: small and chubby and full of potential. 

“Bellamy, I just wanted to say…”   
Raven’s fingers dig into his shoulder.   
Ideas are beautiful things, like blossoms in spring, so beautiful you want to pull them close and press them against your chest. So beautiful and yet so fragile, a whiff of wind is enough to snuff them out. 

“I didn’t know she was allergic to the anesthetic.”

**Author's Note:**

> to nobody's surprise, I killed someone.   
> Thank you anyway for reading and commenting.


End file.
